


Armless

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, PWP, Paralysis, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine/Rose: Life's hard when Rose's arms are temporarily paralysed and the Doctor insists on helping her shower...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She turned her head back to grin at the Doctor as they ran, hair streaming behind her and lungs panting for air. Blunt and unsophisticated darts flew over their heads, missing them by a long distance; the dual suns were beating down in the clear purple sky; there were rainbow-coloured birds chirping in the trees at the edge of the forest where the TARDIS was parked. A glorious day, all in all.

And it was at that very moment that it all started to go wrong.

Distracted by his mischievous smile in return, Rose stumbled over a root, barely catching herself by grasping at a branch by her face. The Doctor, distracted himself by the tongue poking out of her mouth, barreled straight into her, ramming them both up against the massive oak-like tree.

"Ooph," she grunted as the air was knocked out of her lungs.

"Sorry, sorry!" he gasped, disentangling himself from tree-limbs and Rose-limbs with alacrity.

“‘s okay,” she wheezed, “just…gimme a second.”

The Doctor stepped back but placed a cool hand on her arm. “Take your time, catch your breath. Wriptynes are notoriously slow runners.”

She shivered and it wasn’t from the temperature of his skin; his touch felt more like a branding iron anyway.

(A branding iron she was currently struggling not to nuzzle into.)

After a minute, the air began passing normally through her respiratory system again and she pushed back from the tree she was still hugging (oh, god, did she wish it was something else she was hugging).

"Right, let’s—" Her words were cut off when she felt something hit her upper arm. A hand-width wooden dart, little more than a twig with a sharpened point, had brushed against her skin, bouncing off painlessly. It left behind a smudge of colour on her arm and, unconcerned, she made to wipe to off.

Correction. She _tried_ to wipe it off.

Both of arms had apparently gone rogue, ignoring her brain’s increasingly insistent commands and she glared at them, frustrated, before it sank in.

"Doctor, I can’t—" She hurled her torso forward with all her strength but her arms only flopped helplessly in the momentum. "—I can’t move my arms! I can’t feel them, actually."

The Doctor’s eyes widened and he tensed up, straightening his back and moving his body around hers quicker than she’d ever seen him move, protecting her from further assault. She watched him grip her arms, digging his fingers in deep and running up and down her bare skin.

"Do you feel that at all?"

"No…" She was beginning to feel lightheaded from panic. "What was that? Why are my arms numb?"

"I don’t know. I’ve never heard of this planet having access to paralytic substances, at least at this early time in their evolutionary history." He knelt down and picked up the fallen dart, holding it gingerly between the tips of his fingers and sniffing its end. "Smells like…ah."

He swallowed.

"It’s fermented Ratuka berry; it’s like wine to them; they probably dip their arrows in for the aesthetics… It’s only dangerous to certain species."

"Let me guess. Humans being one of them?"

"Clever girl," the Doctor muttered, distracted and angry. Probably at himself, extrapolating from the scowl on his face not directed to the mob she could hear coming closer in the far distance. “Can you walk?"

She laughed, and only a smidgen hysterically. Well, more than a smidgen. A bit, maybe. “My legs are fine, unless… does the numbness spread?”

"Probably not!" He plastered a wide grin on his face and she grimaced internally at the falsity of it; he was putting on a brave face for her and she didn’t like it one bit. On the other hand, he was obviously trying to keep her calm and she couldn’t argue with the sentiment; maybe if she played calm too, her racing nerves would take the bait…

"Great!" She winced at the false joviality, her voice a little too loud to be natural. She cleared her throat and forced her volume down a notch. Cool as a cucumber. "Let’s get back to the TARDIS, yeah?"

"Yeah…" He reached instinctively for her hand but stopped himself before closing around her useless fingers. Shifting his weight, his eyes seemed to look everywhere all at once except at her.

Her ears still buzzing with white noise, she took off at a jog, only to trip almost immediately over a half-submerged log in her path; without her arms to brace the fall, she tumbled straight forward onto her face into a puddle of mud leftover from the early morning rain. Blood trickled out her nose, mingling with the red soil now coating the entire front of her body, but she couldn’t reach up to wipe it away; tears of frustration prickled behind her eyes as she lay prone in the puddle.

Without a word the Doctor gathered her into his arms bridal style and stomped the remaining mile or so back to the TARDIS in stony silence. She tried to speak, tried to reassure him that she really was okay, that she wasn’t badly hurt, but the blood from her nose began to stream into her open mouth along with the mud it picked up along the way and she finally clamped it closed, defeated.

The TARDIS opened both her doors when they approached and the Doctor grunted out a sound that may have been appreciation, although in any other circumstance she would have guessed from his tone it was some form of Time Lord swear word. Shifting her weight to one arm but refusing to release her down to the floor, he slammed a few buttons and wrenched down a lever to dematerialise them into the vortex before proceeding to carry her a few doors down to the infirmary.

Rose tried to indicate non-verbally that she could walk by herself, squirming in his arms and humming with impressive speech-like intonation, but he only shook his head and kept walking.

"I’m not having you fall forward onto your face on this grating, Rose. Gymnastics, she says…" he muttered to himself.

Sighing, Rose, relaxed into his strong grip, letting the side of her head fall onto his shoulder while carefully keeping her bloody face away from his leather jacket. The mud in her hair had almost dried and it stood over from her head in stiff peaks; she whipped her neck slightly to shake the strands from the corners of her mouth.

Once in the infirmary, he lowered her down slowly onto the examination table and strode over to the sink, washing his hands before grabbing a flannel and running it under the water. He filled a small pink basin with soapy water and turned off the tap.

"Close your eyes," he said softly when he was back in front of her. With an achingly gentle touch, he ran the warm washcloth first over her eyelids and then up along her forehead and down her cheeks. "That feel okay?"

"Yes," she whispered, vaguely embarrassed at the breathlessness in her tone and then from the fact that she was now chewing on gritty mud.

He continued his tender ministrations, rinsing the flannel in the basin and continuing on to her nose, her chin, her jawline. The sound of water sloshing in the bowl. The feel of the cloth, bumpy and soft sliding along her lips in small strokes. The pressure of his hand, cupping the side of her face for precision. The smell of him, musk and oil and ancient and young, taunting her nostrils and sending spindles of warmth up and down her body. The metallic taste in her mouth only partially accounted for by her own blood and the iron in the soil.

A moan of loss escaped her lips when he drew back the washcloth and she flung open her eyes in shock at the sound.

"Um, thanks. That’s much better," she rambled, desperately trying to dispel the tension, the stifling viscosity of the atmosphere that had invaded the small space.

"Good. Does your nose hurt? It doesn’t look broken." His words were quiet.

Forgetting herself, she tried to reach up to assess the state of her nose, sighing as her arms still refused to do anything but lie like limp spaghetti at her sides. “I think it’s okay, just a little sore. But Doctor, my arms, what’s—”

He walked over to a large white piece of futuristic medical equipment and began fiddling with the buttons. “Lay back.”

"What? Why?" She normally would have simply done as she was told, always trusting him to the ends of the universe and back, but there was something about the utter helplessness she was feeling that made her wary and nervous. Needing to know, not just to rely on blind conviction.

He crinkled his face as if preparing himself to launch into a ‘you wouldn’t understand, just listen to me, stupid ape’ speech, but just as soon as his involuntary reaction arose, it evaporated. The lines on his face softened and he stepped closer to her again.

"This is a bioscanner, I want to scan you to see the extent of the paralytic on your nervous system. It won’t hurt, it’ll just blink red and pass over your body. Like an x-ray in your time. Much less dangerous than an x-ray, actually."

She relaxed and shot him a grateful smile before carefully lying back on the table. Her arms slid off the sides, dangling off the edge, but the Doctor quickly drew them back up and tucked them into her sides. He hesitated for a moment and then kissed her forehead and turned away so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

"Ready?"

"Mm-hmm…" She shook her head to rid herself of the dazed feeling pervading her body: it didn’t work.

"Rose?"

"Mmm?"

"I think I need…I mean, do you mind if I take out your earrings? Metal can interfere with the scanner."

"Yeah, fine," she breathed. His fingers were rough against the smooth skin of her earlobes, but his movements were adept and he removed the hoops as if he’d done it before. Perhaps he had, but she didn’t particularly want to think about that right now. Now, when his breath was cool on her cheek and his fingers lingered around the shell of her ear.

He cleared his throat and backed away, taking hold of the bioscanner and wheeling it over to that it was positioned over her supine shape. “This will only take a second.”

Sure enough, the light on its underside flashed red and it only took one quick pass over her body before it beeped and he wheeled it back into its corner.

"All done. The results should be up in a second." She could see that his shoulders were practically grazing his ears as he turned his back to her and hunched over the monitor; there was nothing more she wanted to do at that moment than take his hand. Tears began to spring to her eyes again but she blinked rapidly to stop them in their tracks. She had no desire to make the Doctor feel any worse than he was already feeling, even if absolutely nothing about this was his fault. He carried the responsibility of the entire universe on his back; no need to add another.

Lost in her thoughts, she startled at the sound of the Doctor releasing a loud puff of air as if he’d been holding his breath since they’d been in the forest. He sank down onto the plastic stool and brought his hands up to the back of his neck, bowing his head forward.

"What? What is it?" She heard the dread in her own voice as if through water, disembodied and distant. "Doctor…"

He snapped his head around to her and crossed the room in seemingly slow motion but was really only two long strides, engulfing her in a tight embrace that she couldn’t return apart from wiggling her torso into his chest. Stroking her hair, he murmured soothing words and sounds, demonstratively aware of her disconnected state.

"Everything’s fine, Rose. It’s fine, you’re fine. The paralysis didn’t spread further than your arms. You’re okay." His fingers tangled in her hair while his other hand pressed into the small of her back, pulling her closer with what almost felt like desperation. And then, as her breathing evened out and she returned to her body, she realised his reassuring words weren’t only for her.

He was trembling around her.

"It’s only temporary, you’ll be back to normal in a day or so, you’ll be fine," he continued in an almost-chant, still clutching her against his solid chest, "it’ll be alright."

Without any other way to show her gratitude for his comforting touch and concern, crushed in his arms, she pressed her lips against his collarbone in a quick kiss. He froze for only a brief moment, his muscles tautening around her, before she felt him relax and plant a kiss into her hair. Loosening his grip fractionally, he pulled back far enough to see her face, his arms dropping to her waist.

A smile slid up her face. “Thanks, Doctor.” He nodded, his eyes boring into hers. “So a day without arms, huh?”

"It’ll be ‘armless," he quipped finally and she butted her nose into his shoulder and groaned.

"Why are both my arms affected if it only hit me on my left arm?"

"The paralytic affects your nerves and the nerves in your arms meet up in your brain. If you’d been exposed to a higher dose…" He glanced over at the monitor and took a deep breath. "If you’d been exposed to any more, it would have spread through other neural pathways. Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—I would never put your life—"

"Like you said," she interrupted him reassuringly, "it’s fine, alright? Let’s not dwell on could-have-beens or what-ifs, yeah? What matters is going forward, and right now, I’d really, _really_ like to clean up.”

The Doctor’s eyes glazed over for a moment before his cheerful mask fell once more.

Only to be replaced by total and utter fear.

"Yes, um, you _are_ quite dirty—muddy! You’re muddy. And I bet you’d like a shower, or a bath! Or even, um, or…”

She eyed the stuttering Time Lord with amusement: he was usually a man of few words (unless he was excited about explaining something technical). “That’s generally how I clean off, yes.”

His jaw clenched and his closed his eyes momentarily, as if steeling himself for something. “Yes. Good. I’ll…here, let me help you down.” His hands were shaking as he pulled her to her feet.

"Thanks." He wrapped his arm around her waist and led her out the door and toward her bedroom, his eyes averted.

What was with him? He was acting so strangely, like he was about to charge into battle with only a loincloth to his name. Without thinking, she attempted to touch his arm soothingly; when her arm insisted on only hanging limply at her side, she paled.

Oh.

How was she even going to undress, let alone open the bottle of body wash and scrub off the caked-on mud?

And he…

Oh, crap.

He was planning on bathing her himself, wasn’t he?

She swallowed when he paused at her door, looking down at her feet and feeling like her _entire_ body was paralysed. Whatever this was going to end up being, it certainly wasn’t going to be ‘armless…


	2. Chapter 2

They stood in the doorway, neither looking at each other. If he hadn’t tossed her cheap alarm clock with a look of disgust on her first night in the TARDIS, its ticking would be deafening.

Right. He wasn’t going to make the first move: that much was obvious. Biting her lip, she looked up at him.

"If you can just, um, help me take off my t-shirt and jeans and turn on the water for me, I think I can manage in the shower by myself. The water will rinse away the mud, and—"  
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. And how will you get your clothes back on? Magic?” He’d turned sarcastic under the strain of his nerves and she bit back a crabby reply.

"I can… I’ll go to bed. It’s been a long day, I don’t need pajamas, and maybe in the morning my arms will be back to normal…"

"It’ll take more than 9.28 hours, Rose. Sorry."

"Well, we can reassess the problem in the morning then. Or I can hang out in here until I get feeling back. I’m sure the TARDIS will put some television on for me or something…"

He itched a mole on his arm and focused on a spot on the wall just to the right of her shoulder. “I’m more concerned about you slipping in the shower. And the mud won’t wash off with just water; it’s sticky, it’ll require a lot of soap and…scrubbing. Trust me, I don’t want to invade your privacy any more than you do, but you’re going to need help in there. I’m sorry.”

She almost snorted at the notion of _her_ not wanting him to ‘invade her privacy’: there was nothing more she wanted, most days. Admittedly this was not the way she’d imagined it, him having to see her, touch her naked body against his own wishes, in a purely caretaker sense. Like she was an elderly lady needing a sponge bath.

Sighing, she kicked off her shoes—the one thing she _could_ do for herself—and caught his avoidant eye. “Okay. Thanks. I…I owe ya…”

"You never owe me anything: I’m the one who owes… Well. Anyway." 

He looked down at her t-shirt.

"Should I…um."

She looked down at her t-shirt.

"Yep."

Closing his eyes, he brought his long fingers down to the hem so slowly, so delicately that his touch set off the sensitive skin of her stomach and she sucked in a gasp, tightening her abdominal muscles under his fingers. He froze.

"Sorry. Ticklish."

"Right."

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Rose?"

"It’s going to be really difficult if you keep your eyes closed the whole time. You can look: you have my full permission. Pretend I’m a patient and you’re the doctor."

She expected that notion to cut the tension, to send him off onto a muttering ramble about his surely numerous doctoral qualifications, maybe a rant or two about the inadequacies of the human medical system. It didn’t.

"Right." He kept his eyes closed and inhaled through his nose for eight long seconds. The space between their skin became a ravenous monster, stalking back and forth in the room and demanding their whole attention.

When he eventually mustered up the strength to open his eyes again, she almost stepped back in shock at their ferocity: their vulnerability and their icy-blue fear.

The tension was too much and she had to do something. “Doctor? Give me a hug, yeah? I’d force you into one myself, but…” She ruefully swung her lifeless arms in the air.

"Of—of course," he stuttered and drew her close, fisting his hands into the t-shirt fabric at her back.

"This doesn’t have to be awkward, okay?" she pled into his chest. "Let’s just get it over with and move on with our day."

He nodded into her hair but didn’t attempt to disentangle himself. After not enough (and simultaneously too many) peaceful moments, he pulled away, leaving his hands on her back and peeling off her t-shirt with steady movements.

Good. This was good. Progress. Now on to… She raised her lips in a forced smile and looked down at her jeans.

His eyes followed hers instinctively but flew back up to her face when he realised the destination.

His eyes flicked back up her body, taking the motorway and not the sightseeing route, and glued themselves to her forehead.

Without looking down, he fumbled with her jean button, unhooking it after what seemed like a languid eternity. “You know what!” he suddenly announced, his fingers stilling on the zipper tug and his voice bordering on maniacal. “You were right. Let’s not go overboard! I’ll help you scrub off your, um…” He gestured wildly at her torso. “And your jeans will clean themselves in the shower! Presto, and…”

“That’s an even worse plan, and you know it. What, I’m going to just sleep in wet jeans tonight? They’re going to have to come off.”

He didn’t move but his fingers remained top of the zipper, the other hand gripping her hip perhaps tighter than absolutely necessary.

“Doctor, your hand on my crotch isn’t any less awkward.”

The Time Lord was on the other side of the room, backed against the wall, before she finished her sentence. His expression brought to mind the fox Mickey had almost run over one night driving home from a concert. And like she was apt to do with any frightened mammal (wait - were Time Lords mammals?) she felt her heart swell a few sizes and she took pity on the poor creature. It couldn’t be fun, being forced to undress your friend under duress; the fact that this set of muscle movements, if not the exact scenario, often featured in her nighttime fantasies were of no relevance.

(Did he have fantasies? About things other than banana groves?) 

She bit her lip where a bruise or at least a permanent dent was beginning to form. “It’s okay. I get it: this definitely falls under the no domestics rule, huh?” He shook his head and opened his mouth to protest but she only shushed him. “Like I said, it’s fine. How about you mind navigate us to mum’s flat? She can help me clean up.” His eyes widened. “It’s just that it’s turning a little itchy, and I’d really like to wash this mud off soon…”

A grimace passed over the Doctor’s face and he stood up straighter, determination exuding from his posturing. “Now _that_ would be domestics.” He strode back over and knelt in front of her, his eyes on hers and unblinking. Deftly, he unzipped her fly and rolled her jeans down her hips, careful to avoid tugging her knickers down at the same time. His calloused hands sliding down the back of her thighs initiated a shiver down her spine and goosebumps prickled across her stomach and legs.

Once her jeans were pooled on the floor at her feet, he leaned in to support her waist with an arm curled around her, the soft lambs wool of his jumper pressed into her stomach, and lifted each leg in turn to remove them from around her ankles. His hand still splayed across her back, he cleared his throat and tilted his neck back to look up at her.

"Undergarments on or off?" His voice was surprisingly gravelly and if she’d had any control over her arm muscles, she didn’t think she’d have been able to resist raking her nails through his close-cropped hair. Maybe urging his lips into the skin of her stomach. Maybe lower. The warmth in her cheeks transfigured from embarrassment to something else altogether, storming down nerve endings and centering in a location at which his lips were almost level.

"What?" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, hoping to clear her lust-addled brain at the same time.

"Your, um, knickers and…bra. Should I take them off too?"

 _Oh, god, yes_. "Um. I think it’s okay to leave them on?" Great. Now her voice had gone all squeaky. Smooth.

"Yes. Good. Um…" He remained kneeling in front of her and she remained undone. Several beats passed, their eyes locked, before he broke the silence. "Would you rather a bath or a shower?"

Professional. Medical. Doctor-Patient. Come on, Rose: get a grip. “A shower might be easier?” Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she could explain the difference between the two concepts at the moment, much less assess their relative pros and cons.

"Right. Shower. Okay." He still didn’t move and his eyes had drifted down to a point lower than her eyes. She wet her lips; he watched her lips.

The sound of spraying water from another room startled them both. The TARDIS had clearly tired of their tarrying and had started the shower herself. She giggled and to her relief he joined in straightaway, placing his hands on his knees and standing up.

"Onward?"

"Onward."

He hesitated only a moment before wrapping his arm around her bare waist and leading them both into the steamy bathroom attached to her room.

"Doctor, I can walk. I’m not a complete invalid."

"I…I want to help you."

She melted, her knees forgetting to hold her up momentarily before she caught herself.

"See. You need me," he teased, gently bumping his hip into hers before releasing her to fiddle with the water temperature.

She’d never protested that particular statement.

Closing the door to the large shower stall, he glanced at her quickly before shucking his jacket, folding it carefully and placing it onto the sink counter. After a pause, he shrugged off his maroon jumper too, avoiding her eye and standing legs apart, arms still at his side. His hands were open but she could tell it was taking a concerted effort on his part not to clench them tightly.

"Your jeans are going to be drenched…"

"I think…I think it’s best if I keep them on."

"It’s up to you. Doctor?"

He met her eye and she almost forgot her train of thought at the intensity of their colouring: they were icebergs and they were the flickering blue at the base of a flame.

"Um, just…thanks. I really appreciate your help."

He relaxed a little but his hands finally succumbed to their inclinations to fist. “It’s my fault you got hurt.”

"It’s absolutely _not_ your fault.”

"Rose…"

"Doctor…" she warned. When he didn’t protest any further, she walked over to the shower door and pulled it open with her foot, not checking whether he was following her. The water was exactly the right temperature, hot and bordering on painful, just the way she liked it, and she moaned in gratification as it streamed across her face.

Sadly, her contentment was only to last a few seconds as her mud-caked hair flopped across her face and plastered itself to her skin, the dirt getting in her mouth. She shook her head to dislodge it but it remained pasted to her skin despite her vigorous movements.

And then it wasn’t and then her face was free and she then opened her stinging eyes to a wet Time Lord, carefully brushing back her hair and maneuvering so that her back was to his chest.

"Let’s wash your hair first, okay?"

"Mmm-hmm." She couldn’t manage much else once he tilted her head back and began massaging shampoo into her scalp with gentle pressure. She stifled a moan when he lightly rinsed her hair, bit back a groan when he applied another round of shampoo, bit the sides of her cheeks so hard there might have been blood when he increased the pressure of his fingers, twining his fingers in her hair and massaging. Her entire attention contracted to the nerve endings on her scalp, the smell of eucalyptus and tea tree, the sight of the little white and yellow lights dancing across the inside of her eyelids. 

Her eyes still closed, she heard him detach the showerhead and felt his palm across her forehead and eyes.

"Close your eyes and mouth," he warned softly.

Snapping closed the mouth she didn’t even realise was gaping, she nodded and he rinsed her hair thoroughly with the powerful spray, his hand blocking the suds from falling onto her face. When all the shampoo was gone, he reattached the showerhead and twisted her hair into a wet knot, twining it up and around itself so that it remained off her shoulders.

The shampoo must have washed away most of the mud on her back because he didn’t bother applying more soap, only ran his hands up and down her spine, between her shoulder blades, along her neckline. His thumbs rubbed tight circles into the muscles as he roved; tingling arousal shot through her veins with every stroke.

"Can you turn around?" The huskiness in his voice resonated and echoed back in the shower acoustics. She shuddered as she twisted to face him, not daring to look down to confirm the stiff peaks she could feel jutting out of the thin material of her wet bra.

"Do you need the water hotter?"

His eyes were studiously fixed on hers, fixed like an anchor or the point of a compass, and she couldn’t lie to him. She’d never been able to lie to those eyes.

"I’m not cold," she whispered hoarsely.

He froze where he’d been lathering up a washcloth.

"Good," he choked out.

"Yeah."

"Yeah…" he repeated.

Clearing his throat, he brought the soapy terrycloth to her arms, scrubbing with what she assumed was gentle circular motions. His actions were meticulous, turning each arm over to check for dirt on their underside and washing between each finger. He kept his eyes on her arms, studying her skin as if a single remaining speck of dirk would cause the universe to collapse.

She fought the instinct to talk; to talk and talk and talk until the silence retreated, tail between legs. Facile jokes, sardonic commentary, even an irreverent tune would do the trick. They’d all defeat the engulfing stillness, the thickness, the almost solid steam rising above their heads. Antics to force them back to their usual banter and comfortable routines.

But this wasn’t the kind of silence she wanted to flee.

This was the kind of silence in which she wanted to submerge and drown.

The washcloth was rinsed and he reapplied more body wash. “I’m going to clean your torso now,” he barely more than mouthed, his eyes on the lather. “Okay?”

"Yeah," she breathed.

Finally, _finally_ she could feel his soft strokes the circles he rubbed into her bare skin, his achingly tender touch reflected in his eyes. Her breath caught; her heart began to race and he could feel it, he _must_ be able to perceive its stutter-steps, the pink in her cheeks not attributable to the water temperature, the lump in her throat where he rubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of mud, the way her chest felt so tight it might explode.

Another wall of her restraint broke, snapped like an over-extended violin string, and she leaned forward into his touch, turning her head so her cheek was almost but not quite touching his collarbone. So close she felt her own breath back on her lips, so close that a deep inhalation on his part would crash her lips against his glistening skin.

The tension in his muscles smelled like the heaviness of sunshine on an Indian summer day when he lifted the cloth and moved to her stomach. Its thin skin rippled under his touch and he widened his palm across her belly to tauten the surface enough to wash away the clinging layer of red silt. She squirmed as he dragged the edge of the flannel up her sides, passing precipitously close to the embankments of her breasts but just missing their swellings.

He lingered when he got to her bra strap, slipping a finger underneath; his breath hitched and he went still. His eyes slid up to hers, asking permission wordlessly. Nodding once, she shrugged down her shoulder and he pushed the strap down her arm, following its progress with his hand. She watched but couldn’t feel the way his hand cupped her arm, pressing his fingers into the skin with a barely perceptible gasp. His other hand was at his side, clutching at the seams of his wet jeans like a safety harness.

Without the sensation of his skin on hers anymore, she suddenly felt bereft and stepped forward. It was no longer practical, her legs being pressed flush against her legs and her breasts heaving against his chest and she didn’t care. This had ceased to be about showering months ago.

_Time stood still in the timeless vortex._

“You should probably take off the bra. Probably muddy…underneath.”

He swallowed. “Are you sure?”

_Time hovered in the breathless air, crouched down on its haunches in wait._

“Yes.”

Her lips crashed down onto his shoulder, sucking hungrily while he buried his nose desperately into her neck at the same time and let out a guttural noise of relief.

_Time split in thousand directions, leaping and contorting in unending spirals._


	3. Chapter 3

Nose still nuzzled into her neck, he moved his hands to where she could feel them, one on each hip, and tugged her closer. Their pelvises crashed together, refusing to clatter to a standstill but instead rocking into one another. The rhythm was chaotic, completely out of sync with where his lips had begun ghosting along her skin; without the use of her hands, she improvised a third beat with the urgent stroking of her foot along his calf.

One moment he was pressed with his back in the shower corner, the next he’d rotated them both and surged back against her so that she was the one cornered, she was the one trapped against his roving hands and lips. She threw her throat back for the slaughter and he pounced immediately, scraping his teeth along the thin skin before latching onto a patch just to the left of her windpipe, sucking and nipping and laving and beginning the cycle all over again. _Bite, lick, repeat as necessary._

Through her veritably translucent knickers and even wetter folds, she could feel his hard length pressing into her core, understood for the first time why he’d thought it wise to keep on his jeans. The knowledge that she’d done this to him, that he was erect and aching for _her_ sent paroxysms of fire and ice down her spine, pooling between her legs where he was gently rutting almost-but-not-quite where she needed him. She angled her hips better, grinding against him until he was rocking against her clit through the rough material of his denim and whimpered as he retaliated by ghosting his lips down her chest and circling one taut nipple with the tip of his tongue.

"Doctor," she keened and ground against him harder, more frantically.

"You’re so beautiful, Rose," he whispered in his increasingly strong Northern drawl, "you’re always beautiful, but this…all of you, no scraps of material hiding you…"

"Wouldn’t mind seeing you without all that bloody fabric either…"

"Soon. I’m busy right now." He grinned up at her salaciously before dropping his entire mouth over the bud and rolling the tip between his teeth. Warmth perfused her entire body, rocketing from her breasts into her toes and she almost fancied she could feel its effects in her lifeless fingers. The internal heat and the external shower steam warred with her consciousness and she began to feel lightheaded. Dizzy with lust, dizzy from the temperature, dizzy from the waves of arousal radiating off his normally cool skin.

Her vision contracted to the sight of his mouth on her and kept narrowing until the entire world went black apart from his upper lip. Soon even that began dissolving into the encroaching darkness and she barely managed to moan out his name before collapsing into him and sliding down the slippery shower wall.

When she next blinked open her eyes, they were out of the shower and she was in his lap.

"Rose? Rose, ah, there you are."

"What…?"

"You fainted from the heat. How are you feeling? Do you have a headache?" His eyes were wide and anxious, his hand hurriedly toweling her dry.

She swallowed, wetting her lips and gingerly moving her neck back and forth. “No. No headache.”

He dropped the towel and gathered her closer, cradling her in his arms and speaking into her wet hair. “I’m sorry, I should have…you’re…it was too much and you’re injured…”

All at once she was hyper-acute of naked skin against naked skin, at the way her slippery breasts slid along his smooth chest, at the way her still-sensitive nipples felt pressed into his skin. All at once, she tasted the tang of want on her tongue, saw his chest rapidly rising and falling, smelled her own arousal mixed with his. All at once, the fire was rekindled and razed all thoughts of anything other than removing the scratchy jeans from under her bare bum.

"No big deal. Not the first time I’ve fainted; not even the first time I’ve fainted in the shower. Stop blaming yourself for everything and take off your jeans."

He laughed but it was ragged, incredulous. “That’s your solution?”

"Yup." She smirked up at him, allowing her tongue to peek out from her teeth.

"Rose, I…are you sure?" he gulped, his eyes fixed on said tongue.

"Doctor. Slide out of those wet jeans and I promise we can find you something else wet to slide into."

"What do you—oh." The lines on his forehead smoothed the instant he understood. "Oh! Rose, but…"

"I’m injured. Make me feel better, Doctor."

"Rose," he groaned, and he wasn’t groaning at her intentionally bad puns and innuendos. He was groaning into her mouth as his lips slammed into hers, groaning into an immediately open and receptive mouth and eager tongue, groaning as she struggled to her knees and stroked him through his jeans with her kneecap.

"You want this, I know you do. I do too. Why don’t we stop kidding ourselves? Who’s it going to hurt?"

"Wanted you since I saw you in that red dress in Cardiff," he whispered and rose to his knees as well.

"Wanted you since now _forget me_ ,” she admitted.

"Was besotted with you since _help her_ , loved you since _there’s me_.”

She paused. “Really?”

A slow grin turned up his lips and she almost fell backward at the strength of the tenderness in his eyes. “Maybe earlier.”

"Why…?"

He kissed her forehead. “You’re brave—” He kissed each of her eyelids and she bend her head forward against his touch. “—and clever,—” He trailed his slips slowly down to the corner of her mouth. “—stunning,—” He lifted her by her hips and settled her in his lap, straddling him. When she reflexively spasmed against his fast-returning erection, he thrust back and dropped his lips to her neck. “—but most importantly, you have the most beautiful heart of anyone I’ve ever met. _That’s_ why I love you.”

Her vision blurred again but it wasn’t from heat this time. “I was actually only asking why this didn’t happen earlier. But I’ll accept that answer too.”

Brushing a tear away from her face, he smiled gently and tucked a wet clump of hair behind her ear. “The answer to that question is far less fun. Lots of pompous and frightened drivel about pain and harm and loss and mortality. Let’s forget about that.”

"Fine by me. Doctor?"

"Anything, Rose."

She grinned and kissed the tip of his nose. “Take me to bed.”

"Your wish is my command."

He scooped her up into his arms and made for the bed.

"Wait. Don’t drag those soaking wet jeans onto my carpet. Take them off."

"Relentless, you are," he teased but gently lowered her to the ground.

She licked her lips and he carefully unbuttoned and unzipped, wishing more than anything for the full use of her hands. “I’d call it practical.”

It was probably comedic, the way he wrestled with the wet fabric, almost falling over in his attempts to peel the jeans off his legs, but there was no mirth in her eyes when he finally succeeded and stood in front of her, fully exposed. She let her eyes drift slowly up his lithe runner’s legs before eyeing her prize, thick and bobbing and glistening with more than just residual moisture from his trousers.

"Done staring?" he asked with an ached eyebrow.

She didn’t answer, instead dropping to her knees and engulfing his length whole.

"Rose!" he squeaked and didn’t bother to correct his high-pitched tone, "You don’t have to—"

"Don’t need hands for this," she spoke around him, the vibrations from her throat and lips causing him to cry out and clench his fists tightly in the air beside her head.

He was hot and large in her mouth, almost painfully so, and she forced herself to loosen her jaw to better accommodate his girth. It hadn’t been noticeable just to her naked eye, but her tongue was easily able to discern the tiny ridges along his length and she ran it experimentally along the underside with a firm stroke, wondering if he was as sensitive there as human blokes.

His knees wobbled and he hand to shoot out a hand to the wall to keep himself upright.

Yep. Humans and Time Lords obviously didn’t differ in that aspect, anyway.

She saw his fists open and close again and glanced up to see his eyes roll back into his head. The muscles in thigh contracted and tightened against her cheek and his face was contorted. Was he even breathing?

She pulled off him with an audible pop and he exhaled deeply at the loss. “Doctor? It’s okay; I want to do this. I _really_ want to do this. You can let go a little.”

"I can’t, Rose, you… _fuck_ , you feel so good.”

Smiling, she took him back in her mouth after swirling her tongue around the tip. “You can put your hands on my head, I trust you.”

"I don’t trust me," he grunted, screwing his eyes closed as she licked him base to tip before taking him deeper and drawing back. He was thick but thankfully only slightly above average in length and she easily took his entire length down her throat before pulling back, quickly setting up a semi-regular routine with random tongue flicks and light teeth scraping.

"Rose," he cried, bucking forward into the warmth of her mouth. "Rose, please, I want…" His words dropped off into a hiss as she toyed with his tip.

"What do you want, Doctor?"

Gently, he pulled her up to standing and attacked her lips with his, gasping at his taste mixed in with her.

"You, I want…I want to be inside you the first time."

His lips still on hers, he didn’t wait for her moaned response, simply picked her up again and deposited her on the unmade bed. He eyed her, lying on the bed, and swallowed before composing his features.

"Are you done being in control now?" he growled, crawling atop her with glowing embers in his eyes.

A fresh rush of heat and wetness flooded her knickers. “Mmm,” she agreed, her breath becoming ragged and shallow. “For the present, anyway.”

He peeled off the last remaining barrier of fabric between them and settled over her, his length resting on her stomach. Squirming, she attempted to maneuver him into position, tried to do anything to move him along more quickly, but he only stared down at her and held exasperatingly still. His teasing had faded and he was watching her as if she was an illusion or a mirage in the desert, as if she’d slip away if he blinked.

"It’s not fair, not being able to move my arms," she lamented, frustrated, finally using her stomach muscles to pull herself up to kiss the corner of his mouth to spur him on.

"We can wait." His voice was quiet, sincere.

"I don’t want to wait." She wrapped a leg around his and pulled him closer, sighing in relief when the base of his cock brushed against her folds.

He opened his mouth but closed it again.

"What? I know you were going to say something."

He squirmed and buried his face into her neck. “I was only going to say,” he intoned into her skin, deep and rumbling, making her writhe against him, seeking more skin, more friction, more of anything at all, “that you can pretend I’ve tied your hands up. I’ve captured you, Rose Tyler, and I may never let you go.”

"Good. Because you’re stuck with me."

"Good." He didn’t move.

"Doctor," she whined, spreading her legs wider and kicking at the back of his thighs. With a wide grin, he drifted his pointer finger down her chest, across her navel, and straight into her inner folds, circling her sex meanderingly once before dipping inside. She groaned in relief and arched toward him, attempting to pull him in deeper, but all too soon he left her, trailing the wet finger back up her body and into her mouth.

She sucked hungrily at her own juices and he emitted indistinct syllables of pleasure. “So wet for me,” he murmured, shifting his weight to his elbow and leaning down to taste for himself through her lips.

"Always wet for you."

"Let’s keep it that way."

"Not a problem."

Raising up fully onto his arms and bowing his head for a vantage point of their joining, he rutted himself through her folds and made her buck against him as he finally brushed against her engorged and aching clit.

"Doctor, please!" she pled, turning her head to the side and squeezing her eyes closed feverishly.

”Keep your eyes open,” he warned as he began slowly submersing himself into her, “I want to see all of you.”

"Umph," she grunted, struggling keep her eyes on his length disappearing into her heat. Inch by inch, his sizeable girth entered and stretched her more than he’d ever been stretched; it wasn’t painful, not in the least, it was…it was intense, it was full, it was…

She stopped thinking.

"Okay?"

"Yes!" she gasped. "Keep going!"

"Almost there…"

"Doctor!"

He paused, holding himself still although she could see he was trembling. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

With a frustrated groan and an impatient mind, she used all her strength in her legs to pull him down fully until he was fully seated in one swift stroke.

“ _Fuck_ , Rose,” he bit out, burying his face in her shoulder and biting down hard.

Yeah, that probably would have been unadvisable and she knew she’d feel it in the morning, but for the present, she couldn’t care in the very least. She was full, and she was full of _him_ , and she wondered how she’d ever survived before this moment. Raising her hips, she urged him on, gyrating and undulating until he shakily pushed up onto his arms again.

His strokes started out long and smooth and within seconds she was panting in time with his pumping, but his self-control soon shattered and with clenched teeth he was pistoning wildly in short, shallow descents. The tiny ridges along his shaft heightened each movement, sent tingles and bolts of desire down to her toes with every inward slam and withdrawing gasp. A synesthetic white hum flooded her whole body, spiraling out of control around the eye of his storm, and as much as she tried to keep her eyes on him, she had to throw back her head and bite her lip against the onslaught. It was distilled, concentrated, 100 proof pleasure in its purest form and she was addicted, couldn’t get enough, could never get enough and simultaneously didn’t think she could possible endure another moment. 

"Look at me," he choked out, "Rose, please, I need to see you."

She broke with a whimper the millisecond her eyes connected with his, dark and deep, and through her dissolution she dimly registered him going rigid and spilling himself deep inside her only a couple of strokes later.

The aftershocks of her orgasm were still convulsing around his softening cock when his arm muscles let out and he dropped his entire weight on her, boneless against her sweat-soaked body.

"Stay," she rasped out of her dry throat when he tried move to the side and withdraw, tightening her knees on his arse before flopping them down, sated and pulverised, onto the mattress. Exhaling, he suckled on her neck before wrapping his arms around her and rolling them both over so she was sprawled on top of him, still joined together. Her useless arm muscles gave her no choice but to nestle her suddenly-exhausted head into his chest and snuggle deeper into his embrace.

A yawn turned into a contented sigh as she counted his double heartbeat while he played idly with her damp hair and traced his marks on her shoulder. Just as her eyes finally fluttered closed, he turned his mouth to whisper in her ear.

"See? ‘armless."

"Glad you finally came around on that."

"I believe it was you who came around me,” he quipped smugly and she rolled her eyes and sank further into his protective hold.

“Good punning, though.”

“I learnt from the master.”

“I’m pleased you recognise that. Because once this berry stuff wears off, it’s your turn being armless.”

He rolled her right back over and shot her a feral grin.


End file.
